“Coffee’s all I need.” Amanda turns green, which is a good color to go with orange. I motion for the staff person to push the rolling table closer to the door and grab Amanda’s breve. All deliveries to our room come with built-in tips, so within seconds, he’s gone. I sit on the couch and Amanda curls up in front of me, her back to my chest, her long sigh gratifying. As she melts into me, I drink my own fortification and all the thoughts I’ve held at bay come rushing in.
Dad.
The Sultan.
Declan’s resignation.
Acquiring Greg’s mystery shopping company.
A merger in—
“Stop,” she says suddenly.
“Stop what?”
“Worrying about work.”
“How did you know?”
“You roll your shoulders when you’re tense and it’s work-related.”
“You’ve catalogued that?”
“I’m perceptive.”
“Amanda.” Her name trips off my tongue so easily. She snuggles in, draining her breve and setting the empty cup on the end table.
“Yes?”
“A week ago,” I begin. She stills. Her hair’s matted and wet at the ends, and her soft pink lacy bathrobe only half-covers her orange-stained skin. Her eyelashes flutter against her cheekbones and I can hear the soft rasp of her breath as she waits for me.
Talk about control.
“A week ago,” I say more firmly, wondering how to convey the last week’s tumult through the inadequacy of language. “A week ago, I refused to let you love me.”
“You failed,” she says under her breath.
Dark laughter pours out of me, making me choke. She isn’t making this easy.
And yet she is.
“We haven’t really talked.” Isn’t that the woman’s line?
“No. We haven’t. When were we supposed to talk?” She reaches up with her left hand and touches mine.
Our rings clink against each other.
“And then there’s that.” My voice drops as the sentence ends.
Along with my stomach.
“We’re not—you don’t really—we can’t be—”
“Married?”
She laughs, but it’s a brittle sound. “Come on. We didn’t actually have a wedding last night.”
“We didn’t? You’re sure?” I perk up. Great. She remembers last night. I squeeze my eyes and try to recall something—anything—that happened after Declan and Shannon said their goodbyes at the reception last night.
“I’m, well, I mean...” Twisting in my arms, she looks at me with those big, wide, trusting eyes, her left hand splayed against my bare chest, digging in where the robe has separated. “You don’t remember what happened?”
My voice drops with uncertainty.
Hers goes up.
“No.”
“Quit joking.”
“Not joking.”
“We both can’t remember any part of last night?”
“When does your memory end?” I ask.
Mascara is streaked along the corner of her eye, and any makeup she wore last night currently resides somewhere on my skin or on the bedsheets. I can only imagine what I look like.
Amanda, though, is gorgeous. In my arms and looking at me with a perplexed expression, biting her lower lip while she flips through the filing cabinets of memory in her mind, and—
“I don’t know.”
I sit up. “You’re the fixer.”
“I know! But I remember saying goodnight to Shannon, hugging Declan, and then—poof! Nothing.”
Poof.
“That’s when my memory ends, too,” I say, my skin beginning to crawl. “I know one thing: we did not have a foursome.”
“And I soooooo did not sleep with Josh. He’s gay. The man can’t handle watching a birth video. A real-life vagina would send him into cardiac arrest.”
“I know my heart pounds whenever I see yours,” I whisper. She gives me a reluctant smile, in spite of her hangover.
“That was baaaaaad,” she groans.
“All signs point to the sex question being put to rest. Worst case, all we did was sleep with each other,” I note.
“Worst case? Buddy, sleeping with me is best case. Best case. Always best.”
That was an unfortunate choice of words on my part. Before I can do damage control, she speaks.
“What if we are?” she hisses.
“Are what?”
Her eyes dart to mine.
“Married.”
Chapter Three
Tap tap tap.
“Who the hell is that?”
Bzzzzz.
“And that?” Amanda jumps off me and walks slowly to the door. I find my phone. It’s Brona.
“Yes?”
“We’re moving you. Just change into whatever you need, Andrew, and the rest is done.”
“Fine.”
“Security reports that your current room will need some conditioning.”
Conditioning is hotel code for a complete overhaul because of crazy partying.
“It’s not that bad.”
“Why is there a nest of baby gerbils in the bathtub?” Amanda screams from the bathroom.
“Ahem,” Brona says.
“Fine. Conditioning.”
“Do I need to call the Humane Society?”
I peer into the bedroom. “Do they take six-foot teddy bears?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes. Call them.” I hang up. Who knows what else the staff will find?
Amanda has let a group of staff inside the room, and with brief nods and blank faces, they pack our belongings.